Soft, simple words edged on the tongue that speaks nothing audible, between the voice that coughs on grief. A symptom. And, only a symptom. Of a stain noticeable to the mind, yet invisible to the heart. To what can ridicule, for its current place. Then, what will wish for its place among the silence of rotting dead. To them, of mind and heart, as they are not one, for him.
A beat within his trembling form had once wandered the world. A face now stills itself, upon the grave. One woman’s hand, dropped from his, and now his eyes are matted in ice. His face, of how his jowls quiver, of how his eyes never depart from the sight; and he is weeping.
Each tear a droplet of crystal, forming as the weight of his soul. He sings outward, “What could be, for us, of us? A true belief, was this love. A kind and careless deceit, is now what remains of it. How could tears appear so endless? How can lakes appear so vast? How can silence sound so crude? How can this love of mine breathe no more?”
A sickness, of love, symptomatic and asymptomatic, coming with the wails and then the soft gusts of each retreat towards the future. Ah, grief. We do not ever find the past a place that never pains us. The future is calling. The memories are leaving. All wounds are healing.
Though, he is bleeding. He is grieving. He is now the kindling for the flames of sadness. A heart broken with the pain that will not grow as silent as the grave, until he walks on.
Modern Romanticism 